Anglophilia
by Night Monkey
Summary: There's something wrong with Bobby. He's drinking tea, eating scones, and he's out of beer! Who's responsible for these dastardly changes to his personality? It's best Sam and Dean don't find out.


I've got a terrifying number of one-shots bouncing around in my head, and this one won the lottery and was written first. There is mild Bobby/Crowley slash, just so everyone's aware. Hope you enjoy it.

Arizo, this one's for you, you magnificent idea dartboard.

* * *

At first glance, it looked like a scene Sam and Dean had walked in on a hundred times before. Bobby was sitting on the couch, drinking and watching TV. Normal Bobby stuff, probably how he spent his days when he wasn't being run ragged by idjit hunters who needed to know how you fried a Lamia or how you convinced the local police that, despite your looks, you did indeed work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Upon second glance, the Winchesters noticed elements of the scene were off-kilter. Bobby was drinking, but it wasn't cheap, prison-quality booze. It was tea, and it was in fine china cups neither brother ever suspected Bobby of owning. His television programming of choice was also a trip through the uncanny valley. Instead of the daytime talk shows that were Bobby's guilty pleasure, he was watching some science fiction program where every alien and monster had a British accent.

Stranger still, Bobby hadn't acknowledged Sam and Dean's presences, and didn't seem to notice them at all. Though Bobby was creeping up in years, he was still sharp in the senses. If he hadn't been, some demon or ghoul would have gotten the jump on him years ago. Sam's Sasquatch-sized feet stomping around his homestead should have had Bobby ready to break out the welcome wagon before the brothers were even in the door.

Dean stared at the unresponsive grump of a hunter a few seconds longer and then, grabbing Sam's arm, back-pedaled his brother out of the living room.

"Something's wrong with Bobby," Dean whispered. He peered around the corner, gathered intel, and looked back at Sam. "Damn it, Sammy, the man's eating scones!"

"Why can't Bobby eat scones?" Sam asked.

"Because- because he's Bobby! He doesn't do that crap!"

"How do you know? Maybe he does. Maybe this is what he does when he's alone, like how you watch _Dr. Sexy_ when you think I'm asleep."

Dean shook his head. "There is a huge difference between medical dramas and having a tea party with yourself."

"Okay, fine. What's your explanation? Bobby's been possessed by a former queen of England?"

"Only one way to find out." Dean pulled out his flask of holy water.

"I was joking, Dean. Come on, Bobby isn't possessed."

"Then that's a Shapeshifter." Dean replaced the flask and unsheathed a silver knife.

"Dean, listen to yourself for a second. Why would a demon, Shapeshifter, or anything steal Bobby's identity and then make tea? Wouldn't it make more sense for fake-Bobby to be waiting for us with a gun?"

"Unless he wants to catch us off guard."

Sam rolled his eyes. "He doesn't even know we're here. He wasn't expecting us until Wednesday. He's just drinking tea because he wants to drink tea."

"I wish I could believe that, Sammy. I guess there's only one way to convince you."

Dean, still manhandling his significantly larger little brother, stepped back farther into the shadows of the kitchen. Once they were well out of sight, Dean shouted, "Hey, Bobby, you home?"

From the living room came the panicked sounds of shuffling, of china teacups clinking against their saucers, and of Bobby cursing. Dean ran forward and burst into the living room just in time to see Bobby trying to stuff a scone into the tea kettle.

"Hi, Bobby," Dean greeted.

"Don't you say a word. Not a single damn word," Bobby growled, abandoning the tea kettle and wiping crumbs from his jeans.

Putting on the most horrendous British accent imaginable, Dean said, "Fancy a spot of tea, governor?"

"Shut up, idjit."

"If you want someone to have a tea party with, I think I've got a dolly and a sparkly unicorn out in the Impala. Want me to check?"

This time it was Sam dragging Dean out of the room, Dean giggling the whole time.

"Alright, Sammy, I was wrong. It is Bobby and he likes having tea parties. I think I'd rather walk in on him dressing like a lady, but hey, it's his kink."

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not a kink and stop being such a jerk. I drank tea in college."

"You college kids, always experimenting."

"I'm serious, Dean, Bobby's embarrassed and it's nothing he should be ashamed of. So shut up and apologize before I tell Bobby how you cried when Dr. Sexy and Dr. Piccolo broke up."

Dean's mouth dropped open. "I- I was not crying! And that episode earned _Dr. Sexy_ an Emmy nomination!"

"I'm telling him you knew that, too."

"Damn it. Fine, I'll apologize. You keep your pie-hole shut."

Dean, his giggles and smirk gone, stepped back into the living room. "Sorry, Bobby. Sam's right; there is nothing wrong with drinking tea. It's got…uh…antioxidants and crap in it, right? So tea it up, Bobby!"

Dean had to duck as a scone took aim at his head.

"Yeah, I probably deserved that."

A second scone came his way and, using his lightning-quick, perfectly honed hunter reflexes, Dean ducked just in time to have the pastry bounce off his forehead.

"I've got a whole plate of 'em, boy, so you better come up with a better apology and quick," Bobby said.

"You liking tea is nowhere near as weird as me crying over _Dr. Sexy_! There, now call me a lonely, desperate housewife," Dean said.

Bobby lowered his teatime weapon. "I missed last week's episode. Was it lupus?"

"Syphilis."

"Should have seen it coming."

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh."

"Mmm."

"Hmm."

"I think I need a beer."

Dean escaped the awkward silence as fast as his legs would carry him. He bolted for the fridge, opened it, and discovered plastic-wrapped leftovers, a carton of milk, a potato, and absolutely no beer. He turned to Sam, who was standing with his arms crossed, and pointed to the tragically empty fridge.

"There's no beer in there!" Dean cried.

"And what do you want me to do about it? Summon beer?" Sam asked.

"Keep Bobby busy while I go to the store and buy all their beer. Make him tea and drink it with your pinkies out or whatever classy guys like you two do," Dean replied.

Before Sam could protest, Dean was headed for the door.

"Go with that damned fool and make sure he buys something good for once," Bobby said from the living room.

"He _is_ sorry, Bobby. He just doesn't think before he opens his mouth," Sam said.

"I know, and I ain't mad at him. Now get out of here before he drives off without you."

Sam hurried out of the house in pursuit of Dean. Once the front door slammed shut, Bobby became boneless and collapsed in relief. That had been so close to total and complete disaster.

"Turned to jelly already, have we? Shame."

Bobby shot out of his chair, his knees striking the table and rattling the few pieces of china that he hadn't already knocked to the floor or hidden underneath the couch.

"Get out!" Bobby ordered, pointing with one hand and clutching his aching knee with the other.

"So soon? But I just got back." The King of Hell strolled into the room, skirting the Devil's Trap he knew to be painted beneath the rug.

"Yeah, well Sam and Dean came while you were gone."

"Ah, the Moose and the…I haven't picked out an appropriate name for Dean yet. But, unless my ears deceive me, that's their car leaving."

"They're only going on a beer run. If they come back and find you here—"

"Afraid you'll have to share me? My, my, I didn't have you pegged as a selfish lover."

"Leave or I'll exorcise your ass."

Crowley grinned like the devil he was. "Is that all you'll do to my ass?"

"_Yes_!"

"I understand, Robert. I take my leave. Oh, and I'm taking my present with me."

Bobby paused. "You got me a present?"

"Of course. I, unlike you, have manners."

"What is it?"

"I think you know."

"Season Two of _Doctor Who_?"

"But if you don't want it, I'll just hold onto it. Maybe I'll give it to a fangirl in exchange for her immortal soul. Or maybe I'll let Growley eat it."

Bobby glanced from the TV to Crowley and then back. He was on the last episode of the first season. The episode was moments away from ending. The impending catastrophe had to be diverted.

"Stop being so melodramatic and get over here with that." Bobby cleared a space on the far end of the couch.

Crowley sprawled across the couch, his head coming to rest in Bobby's lap. That was not quite what Bobby had expected. Regardless, he tried to pointedly ignore the weight of the demon's head on his thighs and focus instead on the television. That worked until the credits started to roll thirty seconds later.

"The show's over," Bobby pointed out.

Crowley grinned a grin full of teeth and perversion. "I think it's about to begin. Just as soon as you convince me to let you have this." Crowley snapped his fingers and a box set of DVDs appeared in his hand.

Ten minutes later the first episode was playing. This time Bobby was the one resting his head in Crowley's lap.

"What if Sam and Dean—"

Crowley pressed a finger to Bobby's lips. "No, this is Crowley and Bobby time. Those two stay far, far away. And let's just say they're going to run into a bit of car trouble, so they're going to stay far, far away until they can get someone to re-inflate three flat tires and remove a tarantula from the back seat."

"That should take a couple of episodes."

"Even with all the pauses we're going to need."

The End

And thanks for reading.


End file.
